Fallen
by Ink Spotz
Summary: John is depressed when Sherlock dies and goes looking for answers. He wants an explanation for losing his best friend. He goes after Moriarty's web to hold them responsible and ends up getting captured and is awaiting execution. While he is imprisoned, shades of his PTSD start to reappear. Sherlock saves him from execution, but is the best friend he left behind already dead inside?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_"You...you machine!" said John as he shook with irritation._

_Two hypnotizing blue orbs turned to focus their gaze upon him; the silver of his irises seeming to be even more visible than they had been previously. A look of passiveness remained on his face as he studied John._

_"Go to her, John. I am staying here."_

_Enraged John turned on his heel and left. He couldn't believe how cold Sherlock was being. He was so cold, it was almost as if John brought the chill with him as he angrily pushed through the doors and began to walk down the hall._

_It was cold…_

_So cold…_

"Get up!" shouted the brisk, heavily accented voice of a guard.

The metal clanged against the wall as John emitted a small groan from the spot he had been curled up onto on the floor. The floor was made of dirt and seemed to carry the frost from the snowy atmosphere outside. John squinted his eyes at the light that greeted his eyes from the daylight outside his cell. He turned his eyes towards the bars and saw a few snowflakes fall to greet him, slipping through the grate to grace him with gentle kisses.

When the guard saw how slow and sluggish John was being, he let out a sigh of annoyance and marched over to him. The guard had a hold of John's shirt collar before he even had a chance to react. John had been getting weaker by the day, so it wasn't like he would be able to react very fast anyway. The daily ration of gruel and water that they had been feeding him wasn't really providing him with much sustenance.

"It's time for you to go wash up. It's your lucky day," said the guard with a sinister chuckle to his voice.

Lucky day...Lucky day...Was it?...John was silent as he walked down the hall with the guard, casting his eyes to look at the dingy hall around him. What was today? He had been in here for so long that he had lost count of the days. The guard stopped at the end of the hall and turned to the left. He walked a couple of feet down the hall with a firm grip on John's arm before stopping and using his shoulder to open a door there.

"Wash up. We want you presentable for your execution."

His execution? Had it really been that long already? A mirror hung above the scum covered sink a few feet away from him. The guard shut the door and locked it as he left the room, not wanting John to try to run away. John sighed; he didn't have the strength to fight anymore. He walked over to the mirror and examined his face in it. He looked awful. A month of captivity had sure taken a hold of him. A small beard hung on his chin on his pale face. His blue eyes looked vacant, as if the life in them had died long before his body. He was a mess. He was always a mess.

Sighing, John stayed in the rags that had been given to him as clothing and walked towards the shower. He turned the water on and watched as it guttered to life. He sunk down onto his knees beside the shower and felt small specks of water fall down from above and hit his head. Water...Water like he had held in the cup at the hospital when he went to go see Mrs. Hudson and found she wasn't there...water…

_"What do you mean she's not here?" asked John as he looked at the disgruntled doctor in disbelief. "Didn't one of your people just call me?"_

_"No, sir. I've already been over this with you."_

_"But the call…"_

_"Didn't originate from us…" said the doctor as he finished John's sentence. "Now please, just do yourself a favor and go home, alright?"_

_John just sighed and squeezed the foam water cup in his hands that a nurse had offered to him while he had been waiting for the doctor, causing stress marks to appear. John sighed and threw his cup into the rubbish bin before turning to make his retreat from the hospital. On his way out, his mind wandered back to Sherlock. Sherlock was still back at St. Bart's. He had to get back there._

_He had to get back to Sherlock._

_But Sherlock was dead…_

_Sherlock was dead..._

John started to shake on his position on the ground, turning his face to glance up at the water pouring from the spout. Only it wasn't water anymore. Now it was blood...Sherlock's blood…

_He got out of the cab and held the mobile to his ear, looking around the immediate vicinity for Sherlock._

_"Sherlock...where are you?..."_

_"Look up, John."_

_John looked up and froze in horror when he saw Sherlock perched on the edge of the roof._

_"Sherlock, get down from there…"_

_"John, stay right where you are…"_

_John, stay._

_Your friend doesn't want to play._

_He wants to fall;_

_Wants to lose it all._

_The pile of blood from his head,_

_Shows the life leaving him as he lays dead…_

_Dead..._

_Sherlock Holmes is dead..._

The guard was over to John before he even realized that he was screaming. The guard looked annoyed as he hauled the quivering man to his feet, reaching beyond him to shut the water off.

"Stop screaming...bloody…" He sighed clapping one of his meaty hands over John's mouth to silence the screams that still seemed to issue forth from his mouth.

_No…_

_Sherlock, no…_

_John ran for Sherlock's body; his heart beating fast within his chest. He couldn't be dead. This couldn't have happened._

_You machine._

_You high functioning sociopath._

_You idiot._

_Why?_

_John got hit to the ground; his head spinning. None of this was making sense. None of this was…_

John turned to look at the guard as he began to wipe some of the dirt off the side of his face with a washcloth. His body was still shaking as he watched him closely, noting that he was being somewhat delicate for once.

"You have to look presentable to meet your maker," said the guard without waiting for John to say anything.

John turned his eyes to look into the mirror beyond the guard's shoulder. His appearance looked different now. Now he looked like a human again, but he certainly didn't feel like a human. He felt broken. It felt like he had been the one to fall off the building instead of Sherlock. If only that had been the case. As he continued to gaze into the mirror, he noticed Sherlock's face appear. Sherlock…

He produced a small smile at that. If he died, at least he'd be able to be with his best friend again.

"I'm going home…" said John; his voice cracking as he said so. "I'm going home…"

* * *

**AN: I am testing the waters with this fic. I have an idea on where I would like to take this, but I want to know what people think of it first, so please read and review. I want to hear what you think so far! Thanks for reading! :) **


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Kneel."

John cast his eyes down to the blanket of snow that stretched out underneath him. It was so cold, yet so inviting. Like it wanted to wrap him up and warm his heart; heal his soul; block out all memories of sorrow with its white touch. He sank to his knees, feeling the snow immediately soak into the material at his knees. He didn't care about the chill that crept over his body then. He was thankful to finally be numb.

He could hear the crunch of boots over the snow behind him. Closing his eyes so as not to greet his demise with open eyes, John allowed his mind to wander back through his memories. He had heard several times while working as a medical doctor that before one died that they experienced a sudden flash of memories; a quick slideshow of their lives as one dying patient in his ward had claimed. John wondered what his life slideshow would be riddled with. No doubt Sherlock would be scattered throughout it. He was a big part of his life after all.

_"Sherlock bloody Holmes!"_

_John could tell that Sherlock was smirking from his perch at the window, even without having him turn around._

_"What is it, John? Why do you sound so agitated?"_

_"Oh, you know why. You're a genius after all, or at least you claim to be."_

_Sherlock turned sideways slightly then, looking over his shoulder at a fuming John behind him._

_"She dumped your date, didn't she?"_

_"Yes. I shouldn't be shocked that you know. She said that you told her I canceled."_

_"Of course I did. Why is that unreasonable?"_

_"Because I never did cancel, Sherlock!"_

_"Well, you would have anyway on your own time. I was merely helping you out."_

_"Oh, right. I would have on my own...listen to you...Why would I have?"_

_Sherlock turned around fully then; his shadow being cast against the parts of the curtains as the sun shone against his back._

_"Because I need you for a case. It has just surfaced and requires both of our immediate presences."_

_"Why didn't you just tell me then?"_

_"As I said, to help out."_

_"Right. Help out."_

_"You may be annoyed right now, John, but just admit it to yourself. You'd miss me if I weren't around anymore."_

_"Doubtful…" scowled John as he looked down at his mobile once more. "It'd probably be a breath of fresh air…"_

John took a deep breath of the icy cold air then; the cold air hurting his lungs on its way down. He placed his shaking hands down into the snow beneath him, coating them with white to disguise the red nature of his skin. The snow performed its magic as soon as he emerged his shaky fingers under their surface. Soon the numbing effect began to take place once more. He only wished the numbing could happen to his emotional pain. He had been so wrong when he said he doubted that he'd miss Sherlock if he were gone someday. It was because Sherlock had killed himself that he was where he was today.

"Put your forehead on the ground," barked the man behind him; his voice masked slightly by the mask he no doubt had on to combat the fierce winter's cold.

John did as the man commanded him to do, pressing his forehead firmly into the snow beneath him. A shiver began to take over his weakened body then. He wondered if he'd end up dying by the hand of nature in the form of hypothermia or by the hand of the man behind him. If he was honest with himself, he honestly didn't care at this point. He just wanted it to finally be over with. He wanted this nightmare to be over…

_"Sherlock…"_

_John was slumped against the wall outside the morgue, looking completely disheveled by what had just occurred. He couldn't believe that his best friend had just flung himself off the top of a building. Yet, at the same time, he could believe it. Every time he closed his eyes even for a fraction of a second, the whole episode replayed itself in his mind once more, paining him._

_The doors of the morgue swung open then and out walked Molly. John immediately rushed over to her, causing her to jump a bit._

_"Molly, may I see Sherlock's body? Please?"_

_Molly stood in front of John in her full work attire, watching him through tired eyes. It appeared as if she had been hard at work all day, and no doubt she had been with what had been going on. John looked as if he had fared worse though. His blonde hair was currently askew on the top of his head; his eyes rimmed red part from exhaustion and part from crying. Shortly after Sherlock's body had been hauled away on the gurney, John had retreated to a lavatory stall and sat on the loo while he cried his eyes out for a few moments. He didn't care if anyone else in the lavatory heard him. He just wanted to be able to release the pain that was coursing through him._

_"John, I can't."_

_"Why not?" asked John then; his sadness slowly morphing into anger. "I'm his best friend!"_

_"You'll have to talk to Mycroft first before you see Sherlock's body…"_

_"No. I don't need his permission. I was the one who lived with Sherlock for the last two bloody years. I deserve to be able to say my goodbyes to him without having to go through his brother who, instead of being with Sherlock in person, was there with him in spirit through the use of his CTVs that were practically bloody everywhere…"_

_"John, I think you need to go home and try to get some rest. You've had a long day just like the rest of us…"_

_"Don't you understand, Molly? I just want a few minutes to say goodbye! I can't go home and rest without doing that. He'll just keep haunting me."_

_Molly gave him a small sympathetic smile as she reached out a hand to lay gently on his arm. Placing her grip around his arm gently, she slowly started to lead him towards the door, trying to distract him from his obvious grief with her off topic banter._

_John allowed her to lead him out, but he couldn't help himself from fleetingly looking behind him at the closed morgue door._

_"Goodbye, Sherlock."_

_As Molly led him out the doors, John knew that the good times he had had with Sherlock were over forever._

John's forehead got pressed down further in the snow as the guard pushed the barrel of his gun harder into the back of his head. John kept his eyes shut as he commanded himself mentally to relax. He had to keep reminding himself that as soon as he died, he would be reunited with Sherlock. He had to think positive thoughts while he still could; while he was still alive.

He could hear the small 'click' as the guard pulled back on the trigger. This was it. His final moments had come. John took another breath of the cold air, relishing the leaden taste that came upon his tongue then. Sharp tweaks of pain riddled his tongue as his body once more convulsed with violent shivers. He had no idea how long he had been kneeling in the snow outside, waiting to die, but at least now it would soon be over. He could be free.

An 'oof' sounded behind John, who had no strength to move from his position to see what was going on behind him. Suddenly a hand went underneath his arm and quickly tugged him to his feet. The hand grabbing his arm was different than his own. This hand was steady and sure. John leaned heavily against this person like a cane as he was quickly led towards a humming noise nearby. Bringing his heavy head up slightly, he saw that the landscape about him was dotted with bright multi colors and that everything seemed to be on a steep seesaw like slope. Dizzy from the effort of lifting his head, he stumbled forward into the snow a bit. The hand never let go of him though. It held tight to him even when his whole world went black.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"_You promised me," stated John as he stood on the other side of the small kitchen table. He threw a Ziploc bag down in front of Sherlock's microscope, displaying various used tobacco products._

_Sherlock, who had previously been looking down the scope of the microscope at a slide, cast his blue gaze up and over at the disgruntled John. John narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest as he stared at Sherlock. John rose his brows and nodded his head towards the Ziploc bag, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge what he had said. Eventually Sherlock's eyes strayed from John's gaze to the Ziploc bag on the table._

"_So?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders. _

"_So?! So you promised me that you'd quit!" _

"_I did, but isn't one allowed to indulge in a habit once in awhile?"_

"_Not of this nature, Sherlock. You could kill yourself. Are you wanting to die?'_

_Sherlock calmly looked at John before looking down at the slide under the microscope again._

"_Everyone will have to die eventually. To die under one's own conditions sounds better than dying in an unpredictable fashion."_

"_You talk as if you rather commit suicide than let your life run its natural course," said John._

_Sherlock didn't comment then; instead staying focused on the slide._

"_Sherlock, I don't want you to do that, do you hear me?"_

_Sherlock's lips curled into a smirk then as he looked back up at John._

"_Though I may have stated that dying under one's own conditions sounds better, you know that I'm always one for the unpredictable."_

_Seeing that John was not fully convinced, he reached forward to grab the Ziploc bag and threw it in a nearby rubbish bin._

"_I promise that I won't go killing myself. My game of life is not anywhere near done yet."_

Every part of his body felt as if it were on fire. Pinpricks of pain shot through him as warmth engulfed him and slowly pulled him from the cold's embrace. John felt his body shiver as he lay there; having lost a hold of his hero's hand a small while ago. Though the hand was no longer holding onto his arm, he could still feel its presence as if it were branded there. It was the sole reason why he tried, in vain, to open his eyes when he did. He wanted to see who his savior was so that he could thank them properly. The lack of nutrition in his body was taking its toll though, and wouldn't allow him the luxury of being able to open his eyes. He remained in the darkness of his own mind, roaming about the clouded caverns of his mind as he strained to return to a state of full consciousness.

As he lay there, he slowly registered the fact that he was moving. It was slightly bumpy. He could feel his body jostling from side-to-side unbidden. Wherever he was going, it was thankfully going to be far away from the people who had almost just ended his life. Thinking back over it, the reason why he had arrived on death's doorstep when he did, willing to hand his life over to a stranger with a gun, was because he had been taking revenge on Sherlock's part. Being instilled with the values of a soldier, he knew that revenge was not the best approach to holding up Sherlock's legacy. But after two years of Sherlock being dead and gone all because of a game gone wrong more or less (at least that's how Sherlock would look at it), John was livid. His anger had turned from Sherlock to Sherlock's enemies, and that main enemy included Moriarty. Though rumors swirled of him also being dead, John didn't believe it. Even if it was true, the spider's webs remained scattered about the face of the earth, and a John fueled by anger and revenge was the one who went after them, leaving his wife and baby behind to do so.

_Her hand wrapped itself tightly about his arm in a vice grip. In the bassinet in the room lay their four month old daughter, happily asleep after having been well fed. She was not a witness to the scene that was right before her closed lids; her mother and father bickering about him leaving on nothing short of a suicide mission for revenge's sake. _

"_I have to go," John said softly. In his eyes was a mixture of grief and anger. His gaze flickered towards his sleeping daughter, and he moved to walk over and stand alongside the bassinet._

_He dropped a hand gently down inside it and dusted the tips of his fingers against her soft blonde hair. A small smile graced his face as Mary moved to stand behind him; tears silently streaming down her already reddened cheeks in one last earnest effort to get him to stay._

"_You may never come back…" She whispered tearfully, watching John stroke his daughter's hair over and over again as if in some kind of unbreakable trance. _

"_I'll come back…" said John, lying for the sake of protecting the ones he loved. He very well knew, being a soldier, that he was about to walk into a war that he might not come back from. That being said, he knew that he couldn't tell Mary that. She needed to remain hopeful that he would return. Living without hope turned one into a monster of grief like himself. The last thing he needed was for his wife to revert back into her assassin state of mind and leave their daughter behind who'd be grief stricken at the thought of losing both of her parents. _

"_I'll be back…" John repeated again as he let his hand drop away from his daughter's head and turned to face Mary fully once more. He gave her a small smile before leaning forward to place a gentle kiss upon her cheek. His arms soon ensnared her in a hug, tucking her in close. For all he knew, this was his last goodbye._

_After a moment or two, he reluctantly drew back again; straightening his back as he did before marching off into battle. Before allowing Mary to get another word in edgewise, he slipped past her and moved to grab his duffel off the ground by the door. He turned back one final time to look at his wife and child before slipping outside and away. _

That day had been almost half a year ago, though it felt like it was just yesterday. Everyone probably thought that he was dead now for having not returned for so long. He wouldn't honestly blame them. He hadn't intended this to be an extensive thing, though he didn't know how large Moriarty's web was. Within a month of leaving home, he had been captured by one of the parts of the web; tortured and awaiting execution like some kind of toy. He had been chiding himself all the while for having not been smarter about the whole thing. He should've seen the trap coming. He should have known better. He should have…

"John."

His voice sounded so distant and so far away. Yet it seemed to roll off a familiar tongue; the voice triggering a memory in the recesses of his mind. Trying once again to open his eyes to see, he managed to open them a sliver. The dark interior of whatever he was riding in caused him not to be able to see clearly though; the voice still mysterious and disembodied for a while longer.

"There we go…" said the familiar voice again; the hand once again resuming its place on his arm, "I knew you'd come about...you have a hard head...you've played this game before…"

Game...Who else would call what he had gone through a game? Normally people would call what he went through a tragedy or something along those lines. No, only one person would call his five months of agony a game, and it was coming from a man that should be long dead. Using this thought to fuel him on more, he summoned all the strength he had in his weak body to open his eyes wider. He managed to by a fraction of an inch or so, and since he still couldn't tell where the voice was coming from, he muttered into the darkness, "I'm going to kill you…"

A baritone chuckle reached his ears; the hand on his arm gently stroking it like that of an enraged animal.

"Rest now, John...We can talk later."

Oh you bet they were going to talk later. John wasn't about to let Sherlock step back into the world of the living without a darn good explanation as to where he'd been for the past two years.


End file.
